


Our Little Sexton Sings

by night_reveals



Series: Our Little Sexton Sings [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, Master/Servant, Minor Violence, Power Imbalance, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-08
Updated: 2011-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-21 03:46:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/night_reveals/pseuds/night_reveals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stables are all Arthur has known for many years, and though he wasn't born a servant he expects to die one -- at least until the lord of the manor's favored son, Eames, takes a liking to pushing Arthur to his knees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **content notes** : dub-con. religious themes. minor character death. mentions of sexist attitudes. classism.  
>  **betas** : [eternalsojourn](http://eternalsojourn.livejournal.com/), my baby, as well as [immoral_crow](http://immoral-crow.livejournal.com/) and [delires](http://delires.livejournal.com/), who both helped drag my carcass over the finish line.  
>  **prompt** : [ here](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/18462.html?thread=42183198#t42183198). _Eames is the son of the lord of the manor, and Arthur is a stable boy. Arthur has always thought his master's son was handsome, somehow fascinating, but they've never really interacted. But then Robert, Eames's usual servant, is ill one day and Arthur has to attend Eames directly when he returns from a journey. He never guessed that Eames would take one look at him as he dismounted his stallion and demand that Arthur get on his knees and suck his cock. Horrified, Arthur discovers that the scent of Eames and the feel of his cock in in Arthur's mouth stimulate his sex in the way lying with women has always failed to do. He touches himself at night, shamed but helplessly aroused by the memory, until the next time he serves Lord Eames, when his mouth is not enough. To his ever-lasting shame, and in spite of the initial discomfort, his body seems to like that even better. Now he must endure his own body's betrayal, Lord Eames's rough demands, and the cruel pranks of Robert, who hates him for some reason._

"Boy!" comes a cry from the wide opening of the stables, its timbre easily reaching past the rows and rows of stalls. Arthur turns his head to the sound, hands half-way through grooming Byre's gray coat, patting her softly to settle her down. She's a nervous one. "You're needed," says the man who's stepped into view, a reed-thin and graying servant of about fifty years. Arthur knows him vaguely as the head of the household, though Arthur's never learned his name: sleeping in the stables puts Arthur below most of the other staff and they'd just as rather never speak with him. The sentiment is returned so mostly Arthur talks to the horses, soothing them through storms and aggressive riders.

"Yes, sir?" asks Arthur. Byre butts her head into his shoulder, feeling his tenseness.

The man looks fed-up, now. "When I say you're needed, you come!"

Taking a moment to throw the brush into the wooden bowl by the door, Arthur trots after.

 

Arthur wasn't born a servant. After ten years it's strange for him to think it, that once he was free, that once he didn't wake to the smell of dung and hay. He wishes he had more memories of the time that might nominally be called his childhood, but he's a blank slate, the missing years a hole in his mind he's never been able to fill. At his best he is pragmatically thankful -- last summer there was a servant captured from the south named Tell, and Arthur had watched his sudden enslavement turn him mad, had helped drag Tell's limp carcass from the rafters of the barn.

Usually Arthur has no time to contemplate such things, though, his daily duties enough to send him straight to sleep, his muscles aching and stomach growling. Arthur supposes he's grateful for the food and roof above his head, after a fashion, even if he shares both with animals.

He tries not to think too often. It only makes him sad.

 

"My god, you stink," says the house-master, eyes narrowed.

The maids fill a tub and throw a scummy towel his way, watching as Arthur dips a toe in. It's hot and he's scared he'll burn when he ducks deep down into it, that the water won't stop his flesh from crinkling and shedding off. He survives and is left pink and gasping, naked. They dress him in bundles of smooth leather and rich brown cotton that hug him tight, the like of which he's never worn before.

"What is this for?" he asks, rubbing at the new clothes, feeling their weight against his raw skin. "What am I to do?"

A dowager-maid purses her craggy mouth at him, small hairs from her nose sticking out over her top lip. "Whatever you're asked, of course, don't be daft. And for the love of all that's holy, don't speak. No one is happy to hear that strange tongue of yours."

Picking at the metal buckle they've given him, Arthur feels the flush spread over his face, the familiar shame overwhelming till he can push it back down. He would say "yes m'am" but he knows to not open his mouth again lest he be hit. He waits in the room for the house-master, his fingers following the lines of his new clothes.

 

The manor is large and the surrounding lands fertile, the specters of disease and war only visited upon the household when a traveling bard sweeps in, tongue alight with stories and lies. The horse-master tells Arthur that his family is from the far west, that they sold Arthur to the manor as a child to save their own hides. Arthur has no doubts this is the truth.

He works diligently at moving hay and feeding the livestock, even adding to his own chores when he finishes the assigned ones. His thirteenth year he adds a new trough to the pigs' pen out of boredom, one that allows him to feed them and the horses at the same time. It's torn down a week later by the cursing horse-master, and Arthur carries flecks of raised flesh on his back to prove his folly.

For a few years Arthur sticks to improving things in his mind, allowing his eyes to flit over the beams of the barn and the slats of the feed-holders. It becomes too much one day, and Arthur sees he must cut off this needy part of himself or risk infecting his whole body, risk this sick want taking him down completely. He does it one night without any second thought, rending his small hopes and packing the pieces into a box that he stuffs deep inside himself.

The horses like him better, after.

 

"He'll be here any moment, hurry along, now," says one of the maids, pushing at his back. Between the bustling of the staff Arthur works out the reason for the nerves: the pride-joy of the manor, the lord's son Eames, is returning from his visit to the city. Caught up in the general excitement Arthur thinks back to the few glances he's stolen over the years of the man, broad shoulders in deep blue, a handsome face as he rides by.

"Where do I go?" asks Arthur, fiddling with the tie of his clean brown shirt.

"Oh, you idiot child, to greet Eames. Robert's verging on death, so it's _you_."

Another maid adds from the corner, her pruny hands holding laundry aloft, "If he doesn't die soon be sure someone will do the favor for him." They laugh together and Arthur stares. He doesn't know this Robert, doesn't know what he's done to deserve the maids chittering on about him.

"Well, toddle on," they say.

 

The waiting is awful. There are six of them in front of the manor: the house-master to greet, two boys to take packages, a nurse-maid holding Eames' youngest child -- another girl, unfortunately -- and Arthur. An early rider comes to announce an imminent arrival but Eames must have stopped in the village to avail himself of drink, for they stand in the hot and dry lane that curves to the base of the manor's walls for an hour, the wind whipping their faces.

The retinue comes over the hills slowly, the chatter of the riders floating along with the dust to settle down on Arthur. There are many, more than ten, but most break off to the stables to see to their horses, nodding to a man on a rust-colored stallion as they take leave. Unsure of his duties Arthur keeps his silence as Eames kisses his child and then waves the nurse-maid away, dismisses the house-master with a wave, gestures the boys to take his bags. The others sent forth, it is only Arthur and Eames left, facing each other in the shadow of the manor.

Arthur looks up from beneath his lashes, dust blinding him. “Your manservant Robert is sick, m'lord.”

“Is he?” asks Eames, low in his throat as he looks down at Arthur. “No great loss, I should think.” His gaze prickles Arthur's skin, an almost painful sweep from Arthur's hairline to his new boots.

Suddenly sullen, his neck hot and itchy, Arthur says, “They say he sits at death's door.” He hastens to add an unpracticed, “M'lord.”

“We should all be lucky that death may take him.” Eames sounds cruel yet fond. “And what are your skills, then?”

“I work in the stables, m'lord.”

Eames sets a calloused thumb, proprietary and casual, on Arthur's lower lip as his hand holds Arthur's head in place for perusal.

“Handling manure and brushing animals' coats are not the skills I was asking about.” His eyes are quick and assessing on Arthur's face.

Feeling like meat on the selling block, Arthur hesitates. “I know not what you mean, m'lord.”

“Ah,” and then, “Aren't you a most wretched thing?” Eames smiles when Arthur doesn't reply, and he presses his finger in a bit more, wetting it in the pink of Arthur's mouth. “Perhaps we shall add some skills to your repertoire.”

The line of Eames' arm is strong and true, the grip of his hand inescapable.

“Yes, m'lord,” says Arthur, his voice almost lost to the dusty wind.

“Well, then? On your knees.”

“Here?” asks Arthur, the first bit of panic seeping into his voice. “M'lord.”

“You shall have my cock in this mouth of yours soon enough. No need to remind me I'm your lord with your every breath. I assure you, I know.” Whatever panic originally crawled through Arthur's veins bursts to life with Eames' words and his mouth goes lax as Eames explores him with a thumb, sure of his welcome as Arthur is sure the sun will set.

The men Eames was riding with are returning from the stalls, and they shout drunkenly at Eames, _enjoying your little whore without us?_ and _give us a ride once more, then!_ They must think he is Robert, and Arthur feels an irrational hatred start in him for this other boy, that he should get sick and leave Arthur here in his stead.

“Would you like that, then?” Eames slips his thumb out of Arthur's mouth, a line of spit connecting them before Eames brushes its wet pad against Arthur's lower lip.

“No, no.” The layer of dust on Arthur sheds when he shakes his head, staring up at his better. “I have never – Please do not make me serve them.”

“But if it pleased me, you would.”

Arthur is not so simple as to mistake Eames' words for a question.

“I beg you,” he says, knowing only that he relies on this man and his family for everything, that he has no say in how he shall be used.

“You are lucky today, boy, for I am feeling jealous.“ A gentle touch to Arthur's chin brings his gaze to Eames', the sun behind him making Arthur squint. “And it is right that you should learn at your master's feet, and no one elses'. Bad habits are so easily picked-up.”

Dropping his hand from Arthur's face, Eames hooks him with an arm, drags him close so Arthur can feels Eames' unyielding pressure against his stomach.

Eames kisses him softly at first, drawing Arthur's tongue out for play, his arm a band around Arthur’s back. It is the first time Arthur has felt lips against his and it is _wonderful_ , the taste of hops still on Eames’ tongue, pushing into Arthur’s mouth even as he nips Arthur’s lower lip, his jaw. Arthur laments that he has never felt this before, pariah that he is, but Eames licks the heavy thoughts out of him. Arthur takes the claiming breathlessly, trying to keep up and failing, his hands scrabbling against Eames' front.

“M'lord,” says Arthur, gasping into Eames' neck when he's let go, glazed eyes and flush making him look sun-dazed.

“Shh,” quiets Eames, sour breath tickling Arthur's ear before he pulls back, stares. “You will do.”

Eames pushes Arthur down with a guiding hand on his shoulder till Arthur's knees hit the dirt, his new breeches sinking into the soft ground.

The son of the manor receives the best in finery, and even through the uncontrollable beating of his heart Arthur notices the smooth workmanship of Eames' wear, the way green and gold wrap around his calves lovingly.

“Draw me out.” Lazy with mastery, Eames spreads his thighs wide and leans back against his stallion, his arms stretched like the wings of a bird on its back. “Yes, you will be pleasing, won't you?”

Arthur nods, frantic. He ignores the smirk from above, concentrating on the bulge of Eames before him, a dark scent on the air that cuts through the dust of the road.

It's difficult to undo the laces with his fingers twitching like rabbit's ears but Arthur manages, listens to Eames' breaths above. His first glance of Eames is terrifying, a lance through his body, but he watches in fascination as it thickens before him. A careful hand round its stem earns him a hiss, and Arthur levers up higher on his knees, looks it dead-on like a foal he’s intimidating.

“Perhaps I shall let you tease some other time,” comes Eames' amused voice, and he threads his thick fingers through Arthur’s hair, pulling in urgency. The red head of it nudges Arthur’s cheek and Arthur is surprised Eames’ cock is as smooth and silky as his own, if covered in extra skin. He licks a line on the bottom and feels it jump on the flat of his tongue, Eames sighing above and letting his grip loosen. “Take a bit more, now,” he says. Arthur’s stomach is tense with nerves that he clamps down on as leans in to try to swallow Eames --

“Ah, damn, you bloody --” Eames wrenches Arthur’s head back by the hair, leaving Arthur's mouth gaping wide with his hands set on Eames’ thighs. “No teeth, you little fool. I should mark you hard for that.”

Bewildered, Arthur tries to look scared. It is not difficult.

Glaring down Eames looks like one of the wrathful saints painted on the church’s door, eyes alight with flame and contempt for their lessers. “You work with horses, you say.”

“Yes, m’lord.” When he speaks, the taste of tang and salt blooms on his tongue and he is mortified to find himself growing in his breeches, imagining more of Eames in his mouth.

“You help break the foals in the spring?”

Arthur nods, not trusting his voice.

“Then you should know that is what I am doing here, with you. I will break you to my touch,” says Eames, not unkindly but simply as if it is a fact of the world that Arthur is to be trained. “And though I have always preferred sugar cubes to the whip, I will use both, if I find you wanting. Do you understand?”

Arthur nods again. He wonders how this man can deliver such a speech with his cock jutting out from his breeches; he wonders why it makes his own stir, pressing against cruel brown leather.

“Now, back to your task, and with more thought, this time.” Settling himself, Eames lets Arthur’s hair go at last and relaxes back against his rust-colored stallion. Arthur inanely notes the animal must be very well-trained.

Eames’ speech allows Arthur to dampen his fear, and when he places his mouth again on Eames’ cock he can concentrate on the slide of strange skin at its head, the wet springing from its tip to land on Arthur’s lapping tongue. Eames’ cock is so full -- it is the only way Arthur can describe it to himself, this pulse of blood and life in his hands, intimate in his mouth. He finds himself almost worshipful, forcing himself to take more and more, to fill himself up. Sight only distracts him from the heady tastes of Eames and sweat so he closes his eyes and breathes deep, lets Eames’ cock nudge his cheek again, this time from the inside.

“My God, are you a sight,” says Eames, shakily. For once his voice lacks any mocking quality to it, but Arthur can hardly think, his mind scrambled and body bared for his master. He feels a tickle at the back of his throat and he tries to push through but he can’t, ends up almost choking himself. “Shh, shh,” says Eames from above. Arthur feels a gentle finger trace his ear. “Go slow, now.” For some reason frustration pinches at Arthur and he opens wider, curves his neck back to line up with Eames’ cock. The curls of hair at the base of Eames tease him, and for a moment the only thing Arthur wants in the whole world is to rub his nose there, to feel them prickle at his face.

Above him Eames is panting, harsh and uneven, and cups a hand once more on Arthur’s head. It has been long enough that Arthur aches in his jaw, the stone and dirt abrading his knees even through the leather, but it’s as if his mind is cleft from his body when he hears Eames groaning _yes, little wretch, yes,_ and the discomfort spiking through him proves hardly enough to arrest his movements or to stop the bubbling want in his own stomach. The hand on Arthur’s head twists almost cruelly in his hair, and Arthur can only clench his hands in his master’s breeches, riding his whims.

Eames wrecks his throat, savage, and it must mean the end is coming. Gasping for air around the cock he’s spitted on, a verse comes to Arthur, something he heard in chapel only last week _Shall your earthly toils be rewarded_ \-- and he loosens further for Eames, goes one more inch.

“You, you --” Eames’ voice sounds like someone is strangling him.

Tears roll from Arthur’s clenched eyes at every one of Eames’ thrusts yet still he sucks his master, unable to keep up. Arthur imagines Eames coming into his mouth and then going soft, allowing Arthur to suckle him just for the taste and heat, the touch. Losing himself in the thought, Arthur is shocked when Eames cants his hips forward, forcing Arthur’s body to shudder open further. The cock in his mouth goes harder than ever and he readies himself to accept what he’s given -- but Eames pulls out, so quickly Arthur almost snags a tooth on him.

Finally opening him eyes Arthur looks up, lips swollen and eyes teary, to see Eames tugging himself roughly. “Keep your eyes open,” Eames gasps out, one hand still holding Arthur’s head taunt. Wet hits Arthur, then, a string beneath his eyes, a pool on his lips, some catching in his eyelashes, his disheveled hair. He tries to open his mouth but without Eames’ cock to hold it wide his jaw protests, and all he can do is flinch, take the seed on his face.

Eames runs a finger over the mess he’s made, prods at Arthur's mouth till he opens for Eames again, skittish like a horse with a new bit till the raw taste of Eames hits him. Suddenly Arthur is aware of his own breeches, their heat and press.

“You were disappointed I did not dirty your mouth instead, were you not?”

Arthur tries to lower his face but Eames catches his chin, nudges it up. Defiant, Arthur refuses to meet Eames’ eyes, only nods. It seems to be enough.

“You shall be one I can train with sugar cubes, then.” Eames sounds content with himself. As soon as he finishes tucking himself back in, his stallion snorts, its tail flicking round. “Yes, we’re going, we’re going.”

The milk-maids are walking out to the stalls and two or three look their way, giggling when they see Arthur on his knees before Eames. Arthur swallows, hunches to hide his shame. As if remembering something, Eames turns back to Arthur.

“Your name, boy?” The question is perfunctory, barely interested.

“Arthur, m'lord,” he answers, the thick, heady taste of Eames' come still painted on his tongue. He is sickened, but he wishes Eames had emptied into him, that he had been able to drink it all down.

Eames nods, vague, and gestures Arthur to stand and leave.

 

The whispers of what two men can do together have teased Arthur since he walked in on the village butcher's son propped against the wood door to a mare's stall, a servant boy sucking him down sweetly. Arthur'd returned to his mat on the hay that night and worked himself furiously, throat choked and eyes clenched shut.

When Arthur gets back to the horse stalls after serving Eames, he wipes a shaking hand over his face to gather the flaking remains of Eames’ come, breathes deep.

He brings himself off with one press to his breeches.

 

There is a small church that sits on a swell of land between the manor and the village, its battered wooden doors decorated in peeling paintings of the saints. Years ago the lord of the manor paid for a man from the city to come and fit it with a cross, one tall enough it seems to reach the clouds. Arthur’s first memory is this cross and the trek to the church on the hill. He remembers the Father dipping a vessel into water, sprinkling it down Arthur’s face, giving him bread and wine. The Father teaches Arthur rudimentary reading, the stories he tells growing in Arthur’s mind like the letters bloom under Arthur’s hand when he writes in the dust of the horse stalls. It is the first time he is shown kindness.

Arthur is twelve when the Father dies, and at his funeral Arthur looks up at the cross, wondering if anyone will ever think Arthur worth sacrificing for.

 

The next time he goes to church he wears the brown leather breeches the maids gave him, the knees a little scuffed from kneeling on rocks and dirt. The new Father -- Arthur still calls him “the new Father”, even after many years -- begins his sermon, and Arthur listens, eyes on the cut stones below his feet. The air is hot, but the words come at him like hail, each a stinging bite: _It pleases the Lord, whatever may be the relations of life, for us to do our service well; we may engage in very lowly duties to the glory of the Lord._ Though it has been a week since, Arthur’s knes throb, and when he swallows he thinks he can taste salt and Eames.

The congregants trickle out of the church, first the Lord and Lady of the manor, then their family, the village butchers, merchants, and workers, the house-master and his helpers, the cooks and baker, the old crow of a woman who lives on the outer edge of town, the boys who work the fields. Arthur is left alone to stare at the stones below, his cheeks ruddy with shame and his breeches tight. When finally he can leave without risking what little respect remains for him, he finds himself in the shadow of the church.

“You!”

Arthur turns, heart racing. It is the new Father. He has changed out of his frock and is now dressed plain as any layman, boots and a gray tunic. It settles Arthur’s heart, if only a little.

“Help me with this, come along now.” The new Father gestures to behind the church, impatient. Though the daylight hours of Sunday are Arthur’s only time of rest he still follows, ready to work. He digs graves for the new Father using a heavy shovel with a rough wood handle; there has been little rain for two weeks, so the ground is dusty and hard to break. Arthur’s hands hurt after the first hour and he holds them to his face, sees long splinters biting a line into the flesh of his palm.

When he returns to his mat in the stalls that night, he cannot touch himself for the pain. Thinking of Eames, he turns and ruts against his mat.

 

There are three invisible lines that split the people and land of the manor and beyond. The first separates the manor from all else, the lord and his servants living a life inside its walls that is safe from grit and turmoil. The second runs through the people themselves, a zig-zag that ensures the milk-maid is below the seamstress, that the merchant is above the indentured man, and that the lord is always supreme. The third only Arthur can see, and it runs around him, keeping him apart from the village, the manor, and all the inhabitants within. This line is rarely bent, almost never broken, and the few times it has been stick in Arthur’s mind like lightening on a cloudless day. He relives the feel of Eames’ hand on his hair, the thickness of Eames’ cock on his tongue, the smell of sweat slowly replaced by Eames. His shame lessens with every night, the words of the new Father -- _we may engage in very lowly duties to the glory of the Lord_ \-- echoing in his mind.

Going from history the villagers and the manor servants should leave him alone for at least a year, so when a pale man appears at the entrance to Byre’s stall Arthur almost spooks along with her. He settles her with a light hand on her mane, trying to do the same for himself.

The man stands at Arthur’s height but is slimmer, as if he does no work. What Arthur mistook for paleness in the dim light is actually wanness, brown hair hanging limp in his dull eyes. Arthur has never seen him before; he must work in the manor.

“Hello,” the man says, softly.

Arthur nods a greeting.

The man’s eyes rove over the horse, Arthur’s hands on Byre, the hay in the corners. They alight on Arthur’s apple and bread, a large slice of cheese on top, something Arthur has been receiving for the past week with no explanation. “I see you’ve worked your way into the heart of the manor, then.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” says Arthur, haltingly.

“I’m Robert,” the man says, suddenly, smiling. Arthur does not have much experience with smiles, but the one that curls onto Robert’s beautiful face reminds Arthur of a fox, sharp teeth and quicker bite. This must be the Robert that serves Eames, that waits on him at supper and escorts him back to bed. Arthur’s grip tightens in Byre’s mane. He does not offer his name.

“And you must be Arthur, then?” Robert steps closer, hand trailing on the wood stall between them. “The milk maids are telling tales about you.”

Arthur doesn’t reply, shifting his feet and darting a glance to beyond Robert. The fox-smile slips from Robert’s face, human anger replacing it.

“You shall not have him.”

Arthur knows who Robert means, and he can no longer hold his tongue.

“I don’t want him,” he says. The words feel false in his mouth.

“Are you not like every whore in this village? So eager to gain his favor, his treats.”

“I am no whore.” The conviction Arthur hears in his own voice surprises him.

“If you are no whore, then you knelt at his feet for your own pleasure.” Robert is almost snarling now, his face touched with madness. “And that is an even greater sin.”

Swallowing, Arthur hesitates, thinks of the church on the hill. “To - to serve our masters is no sin.”

“Then _I_ shall be the one to do so!” Robert looks at the bowl of food balanced on a wooden slat, and lunges, quicker than the sick should be able, to knock it off. Arthur cries out but it is too late; his meal for the day is ruined, the bread rolled to the hay, the cheese fallen on dung. There is a patter of feet as Robert runs, the clang of stalls opening as he lets the horses out, one after the other. Arthur watches in despair as more than a few gallop out, stallions and mares together, their powerful flanks taking them far away.

Later that night the horse-master throws Arthur onto a bed of dirty hay, boxing him across the head once more. Arthur sleeps on his stomach to save his whipped back; the brown shirt the maids gave him is in tatters. In the morning Byre awakens him with a nudge of her nose and he mucks out the stall, throwing the blood-tinged hay out to field.

 

It is a few days later, Arthur’s bones still aching from the thrashing he received, that Eames’ rust-colored stallion trots in. Eames alights, landing in front of Arthur.

“The east side’s stalls have an awful smell. I have decided I shall be boarding Aris here, from now on.”

Though the stable Arthur cares for is large and serviceable, the one on the east side has always been used by the family of the manor and the nobility that visit; that it would stink is unfathomable. Questioning his master’s decree, however, is more so.

“Yes, m’lord.” His hands shake as he opens a stall for the horse and he thanks God for the nerves that douse any coil of arousal in his belly.

Eames leads his horse closer, holding the reins in a gloved hand that he offers to Arthur. It is as Arthur shifts to take them that Eames pushes him, arm against Arthur’s front, to crash into the stall’s door. Aris’ reins hang free, swinging in the air, and Arthur gasps at the pain in his back. Eames does not notice.

“There is but one thing.” On Arthur's cheek Eames' breath holds no whisper of drink, only danger.

Fists clenched to knots at his sides, Arthur’s blood heats. He shudders. “M’lord?”

“I hear you leave horses to roam on their own. If ever this should happen to Aris, know that a whipping is the least you’ll get.” The timbre of Eames’ voice reaches deep into Arthur, down to his bones where he still aches, and he gasps.

“I -- Robert came. He let them out.”

“That wisp of a boy? You cannot tell me he bested you, unless you are truly slow of mind,” says Eames, derisively. “But you -- you pleased me, this time past. Perhaps you shall do so again.”

Boxed against the stall door with his striped back ablaze Arthur has no choice but to accept Eames. The lips against his own are soft like before, but without the harsh edge of alcohol Eames’ kisses are deeper, more patient. When Eames leaves Arthur’s mouth to tug Arthur’s earlobe with sharp teeth, grasping his chin in one hand, Arthur moans, wanton.

“I will bed you,” Eames says into the shell of Arthur’s ear, promise and threat.

Seconds later Arthur’s knees buckle and instead of catching him Eames lets Arthur collapse at his feet. He brushes a single finger over Arthur’s forehead, a saintly benediction.

“You truly want this.” It is hushed, with a tinge of wonder.

Arthur looks up to where Eames’ lips are covered in a sheen. He wonders if it is his spit or Eames’.

“You are the lord of the manor,” says Arthur, thickly.

“Do not play the fool with me. I may have been in my cups before, but I see clearly now.”

Belatedly, Arthur shoves his hands to cover himself, his gray breeches strained where his cock rises for Eames.

“It is not --” Under Eames’ patient gaze Arthur’s voice sputters out like a candle in the night.

“Just my kisses and being at my feet cause you such affliction?” He sounds truly curious, and Arthur chances a gaze up. He is humiliated further when he see Eames is quiescent below his breeches, a cutting contrast to Arthur’s own harsh press. Arthur’s flaming cheeks speak for him, so he keeps his silence as he shakily rises to his feet.

“Come,” says Eames, gesturing to Aris. Startled, Arthur shies away, but Eames catches him with a hand round Arthur’s solid wrist. “You know I care not if people see us. We ride now, or I bed you on the hay.”

As Arthur mounts he knocks a boot against Aris’s side, a mistake he hasn’t made since he was a boy; his stomach churns with nerves and flame. Eames follows, practiced, and Aris steadies under his thighs. When the rough front of Eames’ tunic settles against Arthur’s back, he cannot help but grit his teeth, gasping against the pain.

Behind him, Eames stills.

“What is this?” he asks.

Arthur shakes his head.

“Hands out.” Eames knocks one of Arthur’s hands to Aris’ mane and the other follows, bending Arthur over the horn of the saddle. A hand rucks his shirt up, baring his back and the proof of his folly for Eames. “Not infected,” says Eames, running a brusque hand over the healing stripes before swinging himself off Aris to stand below. “Come off, then.”

Still astride Aris, Arthur asks, “M’lord?”

“Come off, I said,” repeats Eames, impatient. He tugs Arthur down, and no sooner have Arthur’s feet reclaimed ground than Eames lifts himself back onto Aris. The disappointment and relief swelling in Arthur’s chest like opposing waves confuse him, and he is mute once more, looking down at the ground. “Now, back up you get.”

“I -- what?” says Arthur, shaken from his reverie.

“You may not be able to ride at my front but you can still take a tumble.” Eames reaches down and grasps Arthur’s arm in a clasp, helps him to back onto Aris.

Arthur’s hands round Eames’ front, they ride out of the stable and into the clear day.

 

There is a copse of apple trees to the north of the stable that the servants' children tend, their hands the only ones that can reach through snarled branches to snag hidden fruit. During Arthur’s first autumn at the manor, the gardener ropes him into service for the harvest and he clambers up and down a rickety wooden ladder for hours. His thighs burn and there is sweat in his eyes when he falls, breaking an arm on the mossy ground below.

“No tears,” says the gardener, his rough hand on Arthur’s bony arm. “Get this fixed, and come back.”

The grounds of the manor are large to an adult but to a child they are immense, the vast green of the lawn and the daunting rise of the surrounding fir trees overwhelming. Even with the sun to guide him Arthur is soon lost in the woods, stumbling along as he cradles his arm to his chest. That night he lays on his side by a lazy brook, listens to the chirp of insects and hoots of owls, lets hot tears run down his face; here there is no gardener to chide him.

The next morning he is awoken by a terse “Boy!” and a callous hand on his shoulder. He rides with the horse-master back to the stables to have his arm set, and bends to take a whipping for his truancy in the orchard. He does not cry.

Over the years the water gouges the earth away and the old, lazy brook turns to a glen, its steep sides crumbling underfoot. Arthur would know the place anywhere, and it is here that Eames takes him, swings him down off Aris to draw Arthur onto his lap, their legs tangling.

“Not many know of this place.” Eames sounds boastful.

“It is beautiful,” says Arthur, impassive.

At Arthur’s lack of reaction, Eames leans in close, frowning. “I could have taken you in the hay.”

“Of course, m’lord.” Arthur lowers his head to Eames’ neck in supplication, lets his arms twine round Eames’ shoulders in the same. He breathes deep, smelling molasses and the leather of Eames’ coat, dark and inviting; it makes Arthur’s heart beat rabbit-fast and his stomach dips down low, the shame he’d thought conquered rearing its head once more and yet doing nothing to calm his blood.

“We are not all so young as you,” says Eames into Arthur’s hair, cupping Arthur’s swiftly growing cock through his breeches. A hand sweeps up Arthur’s back to brush his curls and Eames crushes him close, trapping Arthur against his stomach for a moment, inescapable.

“Please -- ” Arthur finds Eames’ lips and opens for Eames, soft and inviting as he knows how. He relishes the drag of stubble over his face, the tongue conquering him bit by bit, Eames coaxing with claiming hands and fingers.

Arthur is sprawled out on top when Eames pulls away slowly and says, hand on Arthur’s hair, “Down with you.”

Eames’ low words echo in his head as Arthur carefully undoes the leather cords holding Eames in. Arthur wonders how many times it will take before his fingers do not shake with doubt and awe; on further thought he resigns himself to the tremors in his belly.

“You are not -- ?” Beneath his fingers Eames’ cock is but half-hard, jutting out a little to leave a dot of wet on Arthur’s palm.

“You must awaken me.” Laying himself out onto the sun-warmed bank of the glen, Eames keeps a steady hand on Arthur’s head.

Under his tongue Eames’ cock is softer than before and not yet fully risen, but Arthur sees he can take more like this, has a chance to nuzzle at the curls that teased him earlier. He slides Eames into his hot mouth to suckle gently, the flesh swelling against his tongue in degrees. The power underneath his palms from Eames’ thighs and his virility seems to travel up Arthur’s arms to addle his head like strong mead. Feeling the growing press against his tongue, Arthur tries to swallow, canting his head as he searches for a pose that will let him keep Eames deep.

“Yes -- ” Eames threads his fingers more demandingly through Arthur’s hair, urging him deeper, filling his mouth to the throat. “Ah, such a clever creature. I will enjoy opening you to my touch.”

Arthur groans in loss when, with Eames’ words, he is finally unable to keep his nose to curls despite the binding hand holding him down. He comes up gasping for the cool air of the glen and some of Eames’ wet follows, a line connecting his swollen, red lips to his master’s cock.

Eames looks on with narrowed, hawkish eyes. “My God, you will yield so sweetly.” He sweeps Arthur beneath him, rolling him roughly and slotting a knee between Arthur’s own in his rut.

The stripes the horse-master left blaze with pain and Arthur sobs out, once, before he catches his tongue.

“You little wretch. You have no one but yourself to blame for such treatment,” says Eames, but he dips down and takes Arthur in a kiss, sweet and soothing where his words were harsh. He pins Arthur to the tall grass with one hand twined round Arthur’s, their fingers intimately woven together, while his other tears off Arthur’s breeches.

“Please, I have but two pairs --” says Arthur, frantic at his master’s tugging. He tries to help, kicking his legs out, and by some miracle they come off without the leather cords ripping.

“Look at you,” sighs Eames, Arthur now vulnerable and open his to gaze. A hand slides up Arthur’s calf to his thigh, skipping his cock to play in the dark curls bellow his belly where his shirt is rucked up. His hand reminds Arthur of the possessive riders, the ones that have just gained a horse and are not yet accustomed to the thrill of ownership. But there is a difference under the surface, and Arthur sees, after a moment. While the possessive man is so because he is unsure of his claim, Eames is sure: of his welcome, of his mastery, of Arthur.

The hand that was tangled with Arthur’s is holding a vial now, green-gold oil that Eames splashes on his fingers. “Over,” he says, and Arthur goes to hands and knees, spreads his thighs to expose himself, his private skin. Beneath him the grass is cool but his whole body is afire, head dizzy with lust and humiliation as he he bites his lips savagely.

An oiled finger touches briefly at his center and Arthur’s eyes clench shut, his breath stolen.

“Do you ache for me, here?” asks Eames, rubbing the oil in more firmly.

It is as if all he needed to awaken the feverish throb in his body was Eames’ voice, Eames’ finger teasing him open.

“I do, m’lord, I do,” says Arthur, dropping his face to bury it in his arms, sweat or tears running down to splash onto the ground. He thinks of the horse-master’s whip, how he takes that thrashing without a sound but cannot do the same on his hands and knees before Eames.

“Fear not,” soothes Eames with a chuckle, his hand riding Arthur’s back, the curve of his spine. “I will be your salve.” It is as his thick finger is finally pushing in, the tip alone making Arthur keen, that the trees to their south begin to shake, leaves rustling and branches breaking.

“Eames!” comes a voice, and then two men on horseback are upon them, emerging from the treeline to burst into the glen. Arthur stares up at them in shock, glassy-eyed with the promise of pleasure, but it does not stop him from recognizing the men as Eames’.

“Your father sends for you,” says the younger man, nervous in his saddle as he looks down on the scene he and his partner have interrupted.

Eames is still dressed save the jut of his cock but when Arthur tries roll away and make a dart for his own breeches, Eames catches him round the center, holding him in place at his side.

“Surely you can delay?” asks Eames, impatience rippling through his voice. His arm tightens around Arthur’s stomach, forcing Arthur to fight for breath.

“We cannot, m’lord,” says the older one. “If you tarry long you risk your father’s wrath.”

Eames drops his head to Arthur’s shoulder below, huffs out a curse, then, “Yes, yes.” He brings his head back up, and lets Arthur go at last. “But I cannot ride as I am.” Eames gestures down, brazen.

“Well what good is he for, then?” The older rider jerks his head at Arthur, who finally has covered his shame, lacing his breeches with shaking hands. “We shall wait, but you must hurry.”

Face twisted in ire, Eames stands and walks to where Arthur sits on a rock by the glen and takes him roughly by the hair.

“This is not what I wished for, but you shall accept it gratefully.” Eames holds himself in one hand and controls Arthur with the other, pulling Arthur’s lips forward. Unlike before, Eames has no care for Arthur’s ability, his body; he drives forward with quick snaps of his hips, keeping Arthur’s head tilted to use him more easily. At his feet Arthur’s eyes water and his own cock presses ever more painfully against his breeches, till Eames seeds Arthur’s mouth with a low, dissatisfied groan, pulling out to leave more wet on Arthur’s face.

“I daresay his mouth is worth my father’s ire.” He is still panting when he laces his breeches back up but he climbs atop Aris with no trouble, leaving Arthur to kneel, forgotten, face and mouth dirtied once more.

One of the riders, the older man, canters up to where Eames holds Aris’ reins, leans in to speak softly to him -- and even from the edge of the glen Arthur sees Eames’ blanch, his face hardening right after. “Then let us ride,” says Eames, voice heavy. They spur their horses on, breaking through the trees and out of Arthur’s sight.

As soon as they have left, Arthur undoes his cords and trails his fingers to his oil-slick hole, pushing one in. He coughs out a sob of frustration at the empty ache it re-opens in him, his hunger and shame only growing wider with every finger. It is after he has three of his own fingers in that he recognizes the futility of easing this pain himself. He spends onto the mossy ground, biting viciously into the meat of his arm as he does.

The walk back is long and he is bereft, his only satisfaction Eames’ seed in his belly and the taste that lingers on his tongue.

 

The next day Arthur wakes before the sun to the horse-master’s bleary prodding and hacking cough.

“You’ve been requested, boy.”

Shrugging on his rough tunic, Arthur trudges to the church in the hazy, uncertain dawn. In front of its painted doors the new Father wears black robes and a sober face, his hand resting on a stack of shabby wooden coffins. There are not enough holes so he gives Arthur the shovel once more, marks a place in the dusty earth with his gray boot. If placed aslant the careless rows of graves would hug the hill instead of warping it but Arthur keeps his peace, putting his muscle to dirt.

The new Father prays, the field servants bury coffins, and Arthur pauses in the rising sun’s light to crack the lid of the box beside him. It is Robert, his face white and neck a mottled black-blue.

Around the shovel’s handle Arthur’s fingers go shaky, then numb. He finishes the hole and thinks to leave but the new Father again marks the ground, gestures for him to continue; the field servants open the doors to the church and though light is scarce, Arthur sees the outline of more boxes, row upon row.

Arthur swallows, digs faster.

 

Every spring Arthur takes the season’s proud and fickle yearlings to the roundpen, where he snaps his lariat at air and yells till his voice rebels and his lungs ache with the weight of his breath. Weeks later the horse-master and he take the foals born in winter to the wide field in the east, marking the weakest colts for gelding and running hands over the down-soft flanks of the fillies to gentle them to touch. It is his third year at the manor, Arthur still small with knobby knees, that a shaken filly crushes his toe when he fails to coax her to sweetness. She is gray with dappled white, her nostrils heaving as she stares at him in fear and knocks against her stall, nigh pinning him with a sharp hoof. Arthur hobbles forward to hush her, puts a hand on the starburst between her eyes, feels her body tremble.

They break her next spring in the roundpen, her fat merchant owner standing at the edge and jerking like a twitchy dog at every move she makes. He calls her Dulcinea; Arthur names her Byre.

 

Arthur arrives back at the stables late for breakfast but just in time to let the mares out to pasture and blanket them for riding. Few boarders come everyday, so on the fourth day of the week the horse-master and Arthur saddle those that have been left in their stalls, taking them through their paces. Today there is a mare missing.

“Where is Dulcinea?” asks Arthur.

The horse-master looks up from the leather strap he is adjusting, lines of his weathered face strong in the noon-sun. “Your little Byre, you mean?” His voice comes at Arthur like a knife fresh off a whet stone, sharp, stinging. “Away with her true owner. By the time the moon rises high she shall be in the Eastern lands.”

The mare Arthur is brushing snickers at him when he stops mid-stroke, hand on her rump, and turns.

“She has not been ridden by him but twice her whole life,” he says, voice brittle as kindling; he feels he needs but a spark and he will blaze like a funeral pyre into the sky.

“It seems he wished to flee this pestilence that falls upon us.” The horse-master mounts with a grunt, swinging himself up and looking ahead, canting forward. “And who may blame him, when the devil touches even the family of the manor?”

Arthur thinks of Eames blanching in the glen, how his face had hardened like a rock after his man had leaned in to whisper. Arthur opens his mouth to ask but tastes only the dust kicked up by the horse-master galloping away.

 

From time to time the horse-master sends Arthur to the village to fetch wormy apples for the mares or to the tailor for mended winter-blankets. It is one of these days, a week after Byre had been taken from him, that Arthur’s boot squelches into the black mud on the edge of the village road. He is to get horseshoes and nails from the blacksmith to farrier a stallion of three years, then a coil of rope for autumn. The horse-master forbids Arthur to ride to the village for he says it will make Arthur lazy, but the trek from the stables is long enough that the bag he carries cuts his shoulder to muscle, worsening the strain from once more digging graves all day. The hurt throbs so wildly that Arthur nigh misses the boxes laid out next to a thatched roof house, one of the lids askew where a hand juts out, indiscreet.

There are no children running between his legs, no old crones shunning him with their glares; every window is shut, every door closed. Only the black smoke drifting up from the center of town tells Arthur his errand is not in vain. In front of the village's smoking bellows the blacksmith's apprentice clangs his hammer against metal, sparks licking his sooted skin with every stroke.

Shouting to be heard, Arthur cries, "Where is your master?"

The man -- a boy, truthfully, layered in muscle but bearing no beard -- stops his work to turn, bushy eyebrow furrowed. "Dead with the rest." He throws the hammer to the side and strides to the nails and horseshoes without asking, for he knows who Arthur is. "I am the master now."

Shaken, Arthur hands over the coin he was given. When he arrives back at the stables he realizes he has forgotten the coil of rope and expects to be boxed on the ears, but the horse-master is lying in a pile on the dirt floor, coughing and wheezing. There is blood on the ground below him, spattered out of sick lungs and smeared thickly onto the surrounding stems of hay.

Remembering the few weeks ago when the horse-master striped his back for Robert's sin then left Arthur to muck his own blood from the stall, Arthur walks slow over the expanse of green field to the manor to fetch help.

He would ride, but he would hate to prove lazy.

 

The horse-master is taken to the manor for liniments and quiet, leaving Arthur alone. He takes his mat, laying out on his back in the corner of Byre's old stall and staring up her abandoned leather harness. The stables that night creak and moan, cool eventide drafts coming in by way of mouse-holes and broken slats to curl around Arthur's spine through his ratty blanket. Even thoughts of his lord's rough hands, his flashed smirk, his weight, cannot rouse Arthur tonight. He falls asleep, dissatisfied and cold.

 

A great crash from the entrance to the stables wakes him from fitful slumber and his legs kick out through air as his heart stutters in his chest with a sudden terror. Someone -- something -- has fallen into the door of the stables. There are no torches, no flickering flames for light like at the manor, so Arthur can see nothing through the suffocating black. Peeking his head over the stall, he watches a strip of light grow as the entrance's great oak door shudders open, the sound of iron screeching against wood much louder at night than it ever is during the day. Moonlight streams in to highlight the wavering outline of a broad man stumbling in, his limbs heavy and steps erratic.

He is familiar to Arthur in life and dreams, though Arthur cannot think of a reason for Eames to be in the stables during such a late hour, and during such dire times.

Eames makes his way past the first few stalls, mumbling so lowly Arthur hears only the rasp of his voice, words indecipherable. The horses are awakening in their stalls, snorting and pawing at the ground as they shake their heads at the intrusion into their sleep. It is clear that Eames is headed for Aris, that he is in his cups, and that he means to ride tonight. Eames has proved an accomplished rider and Aris a well-trained stallion but Arthur knows that mead makes all men invincible, if only to themselves -- a cracked neck awaits those who gallop off with drink for blood.

"M'lord!" Arthur almost claps a hand to his mouth, shocked at his own outburst. He flings open the door to Byre's old stall, stepping into the low gloom to show his face to Eames, who teeters as he swivels to take in Arthur. "You should not ride in such condition."

Eames’ eyes glint in the dark; he approaches and though his boots drag on the floor he is not as drunk as Arthur assumed, or perhaps simply adept at concealing it.

"And who are you, my little stable boy, to tell the son of this manor what he shall do?" He steps closer, the stench of hops rolling off him, calling forth a ghost-pain that echoes in Arthur’s knees.

"I mean no disrespect -- "

"I am your master in all things," says Eames brazenly, boxing Arthur against the wall across from Aris. "If I wish to ride any of these, any time, I shall."

The wood behind Arthur is harsh, his white, long sleep shirt doing little to save his back from the gouging splinters, and his naked feet are cold on the stable's dirt floor. "Yes, m'lord," says Arthur. It comes out a whisper; he has dealt with the horse-master deep in drink before and knows a loud voice will only snag on the violence now threading through Eames, pull it out and unravel him.

"You give me your sweet words, but not your obedience." Eames' clouded eyes search Arthur's for a moment, relentless.

"You are not of sound mind. Please, ride tomorrow as you wish," says Arthur, laying a pacifying hand on Eames’ taut arm. Eames catches it roughly, pinning Arthur against the wall, presses him down. Pitching forward, he covers Arthur’s body with his own, resting his head next to Arthur’s on the cool slats and slotting them together like lock and key.

Into the curve of Arthur’s ear Eames sighs, and his mead-tinged breath is so like Arthur’s first memory of him that it cuts Arthur to the quick.

“My ass of a father died in his bed but two hours past. This is my last night as a free man.” Eames’ hand traces Arthur’s stomach through his white sleep shirt, lazy, and a chaste thumb pushes lightly into the dip of Arthur’s navel.

Gasping, Arthur comes back to himself and flexes his hand, feels where his master has intertwined their fingers. “The lord of the manor is dead?”

Eames ignores him, or does not hear, too muddled. “If I am prohibited a ride, then you shall accompany me back,” he says, tongue heavy. The hand that was playing at Arthur’s flank dips under his shirt, Eames’ big palm suddenly covering Arthur’s stomach, skimming the coarse hair at his navel.

“Accompany you -- ”

Against Arthur’s collar Eames’ teeth are sharp, unforgiving, and Arthur bucks up, his teeth clenched to keep in his whine. Eames’ mouth on his is sloppy, searing hot, Eames’ teeth tugging and nipping against the feeble seal of Arthur’s lips. It is as if the mead on Eames’ breath bewilders Arthur, too, for he feels light when he opens to Eames, his soft whines caught in his master’s mouth.

The shock of the cold after such heat leaves Arthur panting, clinging with one hand to Eames’ leather, his other still in Eames’ sure grasp.

“I intend to enjoy my last night without the specter of this manor hanging over me,” says Eames. “Get your boots.”

“I,” starts Arthur, still pinned in place. “M’lord?”

Eames drops his arms belatedly and pushes Arthur to enter the dark trap of Byre’s stable, to feel for his leathers.

An addled chuckle follows him. “You bed with the horses? I had thought you a wretch but this saddens even me.”

A hot wash of anger licks over Arthur, the cool night made humid. “My mare was taken from me,” he says, raw and open like a wound.

Down the stable’s length a horse nickers.

“Ahh, yes.” Eames’ voice is a pitch lower. “You did make eyes at her.”

Arthur does not answer, still bent-half in his search. The clomp of Eames’ boots are the only warning he gets before an an arm wraps around his middle, yanking him back into the dull gloom of the moon, pressing him against his master.

Arthur stumbles after Eames up to the manor, his hand caught fast, his naked toes sinking deep into the grass of the lawn.


	2. Chapter 2

The teak doors to the manor, filigreed but iron-strong, open without a word from Eames. They run through this heart of Eames’ domain, Arthur hissing at the sudden cold stone beneath his feet, catching glimpses of far-away seascapes and men long dead as they climb. Around them torches flare, casting light and smoke up the harsh walls, shadows onto the floor. In one hall walks a doleful serving girl in dirt-brown cotton; Arthur trips past her shocked face, sure his own mirrors hers.

“Come now,” says Eames over his head, impatient as ever.

The smoke of the torches pricks at Arthur’s eyes, makes them water down his face as he tries to keep on Eames’ heels, tries to think past the hot brand of Eames’ hand on his own.

The room Eames leads them to comes after a flight of spacious stairs, its door guarded by a sentry who stares straight ahead, feet set apart in warning. The air inside is warm from the glow of a banked fire, cheery but for the gloom that lives in the closed corners. The door thuds shut behind them, and though Arthur’s vision clouds from the smoky air of the corridors he does not fight the press of Eames, nor the teeth at his pulse, nor the lips on his own.

The night air and fast run have whisked the drink from Eames and his kiss this time is the same patient, possessing one that Arthur dreams of, lying on his mat at night with his hand thrust under his pale sleep shirt. Eames clenches Arthur’s hand tight, pushing it to the door, and delves deeper, marking Arthur’s bottom lip with threatening teeth. When Arthur whines low in his throat, Eames pulls away with a pinched expression.

"Do I terrify you so?"

For a moment Arthur reels, unsure of his lord's question. He blinks, realizes his face is wet. The gap between them goes humid with their hanging, shallow breaths.

"No -- the torches. Their smoke hurts my eyes."

A rakish smile erases Eames’ moment of hesitation; he replaces it with a tightening of his hand on Arthur's hip.

"Good. I thought you no fainting maiden."

"And I am not," says Arthur, flushing in ill-concealed anger.

Ignoring the disrespectful tone, Eames nips his neck, putting his mouth against Arthur's ear as if he were a child with a secret.

"Ahh, but you will warm my bed like one, will you not?"

A shiver starts in Arthur, then, held so fully against the door that he cannot ignore the stirring in his rough sleep shorts. On the inhale he curses God for giving him this affliction; on the exhale he begs forgiveness for his blasphemy.

"I but do as I am bid -- "

A knee wedged between his own cuts off Arthur, calling out his pleasure into the open for Eames to see.

"Do not waste your breath on lies. That day in the glen -- "

Arthur glances down, a deeper flush already spreading over his cheeks from remembering his own wantonness. Eames ends that with a hand cupped at Arthur’s chin, jerking it up and laying Arthur bare.

"That day in the glen. After I spent myself inside your mouth, what did you do?"

The sound of the rushing water, the cool grass under his knees, the deep ache inside that called for his master's soothing -- it all comes back to Arthur in this moment, staring up at Eames.

He swallows, mouth cotton-dry. "I -- I walked back to the stables to care for the horses."

"This is but another form of lying." Eames' thumbs digs hard into the front of Arthur's hip but his hand stays gentle on Arthur's chin. "We shall have to break you of this habit. The truth."

Straining to avoid Eames’ gaze, Arthur says, "Please, m'lord, do not make me give voice to the perversions.”

Losing patience, Eames’ grips him and leads him to the bed, where a layer of furs lie over the white sheets in anticipation of autumn. He throws Arthur down, knocking the breath from him, and reaches into a nearby chest. Light glints off a small, familiar vial in his hand, and at the sight of it Arthur shivers in shame, pain, excitement.

Next to him on the bed, Eames pulls him close with a hand round his middle, crushing their chests together. He lifts Arthur’s leg up to accept a thigh, then guides Arthur closer by the hair for a burning kiss, a declaration.

“Tell me.” Eames’ soothing tones are almost a whisper in Arthur’s ear, his palm skating down Arthur’s side to slide beneath his sleep trousers and stroke the flesh he finds there. “Tell me or I shall tell you myself, how you looked spread out and waiting for me of your own accord.”

Feeling his flesh kneaded and changed by Eames, imagining himself remade for his master, Arthur opens his mouth, forces the words out.

“I touched myself,” he says. After it is done he gasps for air, trying to avoid Eames’ gaze. He feels a shaking head against his own, disappointment; and Arthur knows that this is Eames, feeding him sugar cubes to break him but he can’t stop -- his body has turned on him.

“More,” orders Eames. “Where?”

In the corner the banked fire hisses, spits a spark into the air.

“You left me oiled, m’lord, and I -- “ Arthur loses his courage to shame; he remembers being left in the glen, the taste of Eames thick down this throat and painted on his lips, the way he _hurt_ inside, his fingers hardly able to allay it.

Eames lets out a huff against Arthur’s face.

“You were aching, were you not?” Dragging his hand up Arthur’s back, he pushes Arthur’s sleep shirt up and up, throws it to the edge of the bed. “For me.” Eames delves back under Arthur’s trousers, trailing a newly oiled finger down his cleft. Muscles seizing, Arthur groans when Eames finds the furl of his center, circles around it sleekly, goes no further.

“M-m’lord.” Of its own volition Arthur’s leg inches higher up Eames’ side, opening him wider, further, hoping to draw Eames in. His mouth hangs slack, inviting, eyes glazed.

“Tell me,” orders Eames, soft as the rabbit's fur on the bed. “What did you do?”

When Arthur breaks the foals in the spring, he uses his voice to goad, punish, reward. He wonders if the foals can feel themselves break, wonder if they mark that moment when they realize they are mastered at last. Arthur only knows that he feels it, there, on Eames' bed.

“My fingers! I put my fingers in.” For all that Arthur has never heard it before, the desperate voice that cries out cannot be anyone’s but his own.

“They were not enough,” says Eames, still running his slippery finger over Arthur's cleft, up and down, maddening and unstoppable. It is not a question.

Arthur shakes his head in defeat and whispers, unprompted,

“No. They were not, m'lord.”

“Whose do you yearn for?” Eames sounds concerned, as if he wishes to take the pain Arthur feels away, pick it out of his bones.

Biting his lip once, harsh, Arthur says, “Yours, yours -- “

The breach surprises him, Eames’ finger thick as it slides in, twisting to claim as much flesh as it can reach. Arthur keens at the heat and his forehead falls to Eames’ neck again. The finger burrows deeper, Eames’ gaze intent on Arthur’s face, dipping to kiss Arthur even as their hips align.

“With a bit of wet you shall open like a field for my seeding, will you not?” asks Eames, laughter ringing in Arthur’s ear when he pushes another oiled finger in, vicious, sweet. They work inside Arthur, stretching him till his leg cramps with the heat, pushed up as it is to open himself for the taking.

Shaking his head in pointless denial, Arthur stifles a moan when Eames slips his fingers out and works Arthur’s sleep trousers down at last to leave him wearing not a stitch. The soft, red light from the fireplace travels over Arthur’s bare body, trailing over the tendons of his spread legs, the muscles of the arm laid across his face.

Above Arthur on his knees, Eames opens his mouth as if to speak, but closes it in the next breath. He removes his own tunic one-handed, the other going to his tied, straining breeches with a new haste, quickly divesting himself before rolling Arthur onto his stomach roughly. The furs make the bed slippery beneath him, and Arthur slides on the top layer till Eames pulls him by the hips to hands and knees.

The room goes quiet save for their panting breaths.

Eames rubs a hand over Arthur’s scarred back, the remnants of childhood and the horse-master’s disdain.

“What fool things do you do, to call for such treatment?” he asks, heavy.

Arthur ducks his head between his shoulders, unhappy.

A kiss alights on his back, tracing his raised flesh; at the sametime Eames forces two fingers back into Arthur, coercing him open. Eames’ blood-hot cock rests against Arthur’s thigh, and Arthur thinks of its weight on his tongue, how it cannot slide down his throat but halfway even when he swallows around it. It hits him, then, that when his lord says _I will bed you_ it means he shall carve Arthur to fit him, to mold to him.

“You will break me, m’lord,” Arthur says, voice shattering like dry wood to an axe.

Eames scoffs. “I told you in the glen that I would open you to my touch, make you yield for me.” He pushes further, one last oiled finger, thicker than Arthur has ever felt before. The words travel up Arthur’s spine to his head, muddling him; his forehead falls to the sheets, mouth open and gasping, wherever he touches going sweat-damp. A hand on his back forces him down further, and he feels the other when Eames nudges his cock against his cleft, riding the gold oil he poured there.

“There, there -- “ Eames pins Arthur to the sheets, opens him with a finger, and at last begins a slow slide in, biting off a groan.

Arthur spreads his legs wider, tries to open, but he cannot, he cannot –

“M'lord,” says Arthur, shaky. When he opens his mouth he tastes the lye of the sheets below, scratchy on his cheek. To distract himself from the hot burn of Eames, he wipes sweat from his face with a hand, more from beneath his eyes. The ache inside him grows for an unbearable moment, Eames not a balm as promised, only a worse pain – but then Arthur feels thick thighs against his own, Eames settling into ownership with his hands splayed on Arthur’s hips.

Eames bends over him to set sharp teeth at his back, and Arthur moans at the new stretch, unclenching his hands from the sheets, sobbing once.

Hot breaths come at Arthur's nape. “You see?”

Arthur begins to, the heat lancing up his spine when Eames pulls out only to lodge deeper, taking as he pleases.

Beneath him Arthur knows he is broken, not where Eames is taking him at last but deeper inside where his greedy need for Eames lives. A traitorous “M'lord,” hitches out of his throat, and Eames groans, forcing Arthur up the bed further.

Finally broken, filled to the brim with his master’s brand, he is freed from his shame and collapses into the sheets; he puts a hand to his mouth, biting, savage. His fingers are salty with sweat, tears.

“Do not – “ says Eames, hand tearing Arthur's away. “Do not silence yourself.”

The heat of submission, of anger at knowing he has been bested rushes through him and he cries out, ending on a violent, cut-off moan when he comes onto the rabbit fur beneath. Eames places his forehead at Arthur’s neck and pants into his nape, arm holding Arthur in place though all Arthur wishes is to sleep for an age. When Eames comes it is deep inside, stuck so far in that Arthur imagines he can feel himself filled.

“Turn, on your back,” says Eames, pulling out, wet following him.

Sluggish, Arthur goes to his back, barely able to breathe. Eames pushes Arthur’s legs up to his chest, baring him for perusal, watching where his own seed trickles out onto the fur below. Lax and sated, Arthur has no choice but to allow it all, watching as his limbs are moved for him, as Eames runs rough fingers over his wet hole.

Tiring at last of staring at where he claimed Arthur, Eames falls next to him. Shock takes over Arthur, a numbness through his whole body, till Eames wraps a lazy, hot hand around Arthur’s upper arm.

“You pleased me,” says Eames, slow.

Arthur does not reply, only turning to his side before falling into sleep.

A hand pressed to his stomach wakes Arthur in the early dawn. The coals in the fireplace give no heat or glow, but outside the window the sun crests over the manor’s forest to spill into the room.

“Good morn,” says Eames, voice languid with sleep. He moves his hand to Arthur’s flank, settles. “Are you pained?”

Arthur hesitates, nods.

Lips at Arthur’s neck, Eames says, sleepy, “Well, take your rest.”

Looking to the grounds outside, Arthur can see the tops of an apple grove, the same one he once worked in; he remembers the sudden pain in his arm, the crack of the bone. He stares until the breaths behind him even out, Eames slipping once more to sleep.

Held snug in his lord’s grasp, he soon follows.

  


A sharp rap of knuckles on the door wakes them at midday. It is the house-master, gaunt as he once was not. He talks to Eames of funeral arrangements for Eames’ father, mass burial plans for the village’s dead to be held far past the western wall, the grain that has gone to rot in the fields with not enough hands for the harvest.

“Enough,” says Eames at last, waving him out. For the first time Arthur notes the dark blue smudges that lie under Eames’ eyes like dark pools, aging him.

The house-master puts a small, tightly-folded letter on a nearby chest, bows, and leaves.

As soon as the door shuts, Eames pulls Arthur closer, a nose against Arthur's ear and lips on his neck. An undeniable shudder goes through Arthur’s body at the casual touch, and soon Eames' torso is pushed to Arthur's back, their legs twining. Arthur knows not what he shall do if Eames sees fit to bed him once more, for he feels a twinge at the end of his spine, a wholly unpleasurable ache. His worries are assuaged when a maid comes, telling Eames his bath is ready.

Giving a final chaste kiss to Arthur’s cheek, Eames says, "Stay and bathe later," and pulls back the sheets and rabbit fur to arise from bed naked, unashamed.

The maid closes the door on her way out, and Arthur is left alone.

He warily fetches his tunic from the end of the bed, aware of the beat that pounds through his body in time with his heart. Pushing the blankets back he walks, slow and hindered, to where the house-master placed the unmarked letter. It is tied only with a long piece of twine, no wax seal in sight to warn off mischief-makers. Before Arthur has given thought to action his fingers are plucking the twine and unfolding the rough piece of parchment. It has been years since he last held book or paper and he trembles in the morning light, elation coming over him at the sight of a script written on parchment, in a hand not his own.

The string of letters he sees beg to be given voice, to be tried on his tongue. It takes him long minutes to articulate, remembering the lessons with the Father in the failing light of day, kneeling in a pew as he whispered scripture aloud.

At last he opens his mouth in the cool, empty room.

"List of the Dead."

The sun has risen high above by the time he arrives half-way through, his eyes catching on a single name among the masses. His heart loses its beat in his chest, unsteady and delirious.

"Thomas Vole," he says, thick and from his throat.

"A friend of yours?" comes a voice from behind him.

Arthur spins on the bed, clenching the parchment so that it crinkles in his hand. He looks straight at the Lord Eames standing in the doorway, knowing he is caught at his spying. His mouth is dry from fear but also from the view of the wet wave of Eames' hair, the light tunic and leather breeches that hug Eames smoothly.

"No, no friend," says Arthur, swallowing.

Eames walks to the bed, eyes considering.

"You know your letters," he says, and though his voice is light his gaze is anything but.

Arthur nods, drops his eyes to the parchment. He feels distress at the new creases he has caused -- such a foolish waste. Closing the door behind him, Eames walks to the bed to settle next to Arthur, bringing a thumb to Arthur’s lower lip.

"No wonder your mouth picks up tricks so well. You are no village half-wit.”

Unable to read the emotion in his lord’s face, Arthur keeps silent, judging it the shrewdest road.

Dropping his hand, Eames reaches for the parchment, and before Arthur knows it he is guarding it against his chest, glaring at Eames. Mortified at his insolence, Arthur forces his arm to extend and offer the letter up. Eames only laughs, rich and hearty.

“If you are so attached, you may keep it,” he grants, pulling Arthur roughly down to lay on the soiled furs with him. “Now, read to me the list of the poor souls no longer with us.”

Held in Eames’ arms and still worrying his fingers against the letter, Arthur looks to Eames’ face for any hint of mockery, but there is no more than is usual.

“Yes, m’lord.” Arthur takes a bracing breath and starts again. Eames idly listens to the names be called out, making asides as he does, _we shall need a new butcher_ , and _no loss there_.

Minutes later Arthur once more comes to the middle of the list, “Thomas Vole.” He fails to keep the note of triumph out of his voice.

Interrupting, Eames tightens his arm around Arthur’s middle. “Ah, yes. And who is this man that has gained your ire?”

Considering his words, Arthur licks his lips to grant himself time. Eventually he can delay no longer.

“‘Tis the given name of the horse-master.”

Sighing, Eames drops his hand from Arthur’s side at last to mumble to himself, “The horse-master and the butcher in one day. Has God no mercy?”

There is silence in the room for a long moment, and Arthur remembers his thirteenth year, the horse-master’s whip on his back when he added a trough to the pig pens and connected the horse stalls. He thinks of how he can still sketch improvements in his mind despite having given up on making them many years ago, how he knows beyond a doubt he can do something here, something good.

“I -- I work in the stables, m’lord,” he says, quiet.

“I know,” says Eames, bitten off in annoyance, his hand over his eyes.

“The care of the horses and pigs, the way to prepare for winter and summer, how to break a foal -- I know all of this.” Arthur drops his gaze from Eames’ profile to the rabbit furs below, not daring to meet Eames’ gaze over such words.

“You dare to put yourself forward as horse-master?” asks Eames, tone harsh.

Arthur’s throat constricts as he tries to kill his hopes, the hopes he thought he had discarded long ago, but his sudden glimpse of a future gives him too much courage.

“I could do it. With the help of a boy, I could, I swear it,” he says, the words tripping from his mouth to land in an ungainly pile between them. He chances a glance at Eames, whose mouth is pulled down in a full, unhappy line on his face.

“The trees have begun to lose their leaves. Winter shall be upon us in but a moon or two, and I wish for you to warm my bed, not sleep in the stables. You shall take the room to the north -- “

“No!”

Eames stops his speech in shock, staring at Arthur, who has sprung from the bed in only his white night shirt, hand still wrapped around the letter. “No, I can do it. M’lord, please, please give me -- “

A hand round his arm throws Arthur on top of the sheets, a knee in his back pressing his face into salt and seed covered rabbit furs as Eames holds him down.

“No?” he asks, louder than Arthur has ever heard. “You would say no to me, when the boys of the village and the manor vie for my attention? I have been kind to you, too kind by far, yet you treat my kindness like it is an evil to be escaped or merely borne!” His grip tightens, his knee sinks lower, and Arthur’s breath turns ragged, trapped in his chest. “And now, when I offer you a position in my house and bed, you turn me down for some beasts?” Arthur feels his arm start to bruise from Eames’ grip and he cannot help his shout of pain, muffled by the sheets but still finding a way out to Eames’ ears.

At his cry suddenly Arthur is free, cool air where Eames’ muscle and sinew had held him. With a small, hitched moan he pushes up from the bed to look to the window where Eames stands highlighted, staring in shock at his own trembling hands. When he sees Arthur sitting straight he drops them, avoiding Arthur’s eyes as he wipes them on his leather breeches as if to cleanse himself. He turns to the window, to all the land that now belongs to him, to the apple orchard and the stables and the lawn and the glen.

“Get out,” he orders, so softly Arthur almost thinks it an imagining. “Get yourself to your stables.”

Arthur dresses, leaves. It is only later in the dust of the horse stalls that he realizes he still holds the letter, the names of the dead creased and torn.

  


The days pass by steadily till it has been near a week since Arthur laid in Eames’ bed and awoke to his gentle kisses. A boy arrives on the second day to help with the stables; Arthur does not ask who sent him. Though he is helpless, barely able to lift a stallion’s saddle, the boy works brushing the mares’ coats till they gleam. Arthur tries to be kind, but with many of the village riders dead, he spends much of his time taking the horses through their paces; though he has put it off, unwilling to think of his lord, Aris has not been ridden in a week and it is his turn today to canter in the fields.

“Arthur,” hisses the boy, pulling on his tunic. “Arthur, the lord of the manor is here!”

The boy’s hands are small and light on his tunic but it is his words that hit Arthur, weakening his knees as his hands tighten in his leather riding gloves. He turns, unsteady.

It is Eames, clad in black leather and a black tunic, his face tight, his eyes trained on Arthur’s in the dim gloom of the stalls.

“Leave us, boy,” he says, brusquely. The boy scampers away, steps muffled by the hay covering the dirt floor.

“M’lord,” says Arthur, even-toned. He tries to hide the battle inside himself, the half of him that begs forgiveness for his insolence raging against the half that hopes, still hopes. Aris snorts behind him and Arthur startles. Eames pays his steed no mind, stepping closer to Arthur but yet keeping farther than he ever has before.

“Put Aris away, for I will ride him later. I wish for you to show me the stables. All of them.”

It is a strange request but Arthur complies, walking through each one, explaining the rotation he works: the way the horses must be fed at certain times, where to board the testy ones, how to gentle the angry ones. Eames says nothing, only listening intently as he watches Arthur’s face in the darkening stalls. Arthur speaks at length, emboldened by the gravity his lord seems to give his words, and the sun is near to setting when Eames nods in finality. They end in the horse-master’s old room, still filled with his whips and riding clothes and small indulgences. Long-borne anger at knowing that this room shall never be his blooms in Arthur but he pushes it down, breathing harsh with the effort. Oblivious, Eames seems to waver there on the edge of the door, unsure as Arthur has never seen.

“How fares your arm?” he asks, sudden, swift as a hawk.

Puzzled, Arthur opens his lips to wonder at the question when he remembers the push of Eames’ knee in his back, the crush of his hand. Compared to the striping from the horse-master and his broken arm in the orchard, the bruise that had settled on his skin for but a day seems a laughable indignity.

“It is well, m’lord.”

A shadow of doubt crosses Eames’ face.

“Show me,” he orders, voice pooling low. Arthur hesitates, rolls up the arm of his tunic to bare his unblemished skin, a flush on his face at the scrutiny. Walking closer, Eames lays a gloved hand on Arthur’s upper arm in parody of where he once gripped, this time so light Arthur barely feels it. His black gloves are stark against Arthur’s pale skin, and Arthur shivers, thinking of the night he spent under Eames, the pleasure he felt at his hand. When he looks up Eames is staring at him, his face, his lips, tracking where Arthur wets them with his tongue. Leaning closer he boxes Arthur in and puts his face next to Arthur’s, brushing their lips together -- and it is all Arthur can take, his patience broken. He presses forward like a wave towards Eames, rolling his body, his hips, then offering his mouth for the taking, slotting with Eames. A hot hand travels up his side, burning through the light tunic he wears till it finds his arm and pins it to the rough-hewn door behind them. Eames pulls back so slowly Arthur thinks he must be pained, his breaths coming in short bursts against Arthur’s neck, Arthur’s cheek. “I hurt you, yet you do not shy from me,” he says, low, baffled.

“Do not take me for weak,” replies Arthur, almost hissing as he lunges forward, twisting from the grip holding his wrists.

Eames does not relent, crashing again into Arthur and finding his wrists to pin them, nudging a thigh between Arthur’s.

“You would not have dared speak to me in such tones but a week ago,” he says. Dismay seems to cloud his voice when he adds, “Why do you test me so?”

Arthur looks behind Eames to the dead horse-master’s coiled whips hanging on the wall, the same leather strips that flayed his back time and again; he sees the long, black one with a knot at the end, the same one that scarred his back his thirteenth year. He thinks of how he shall never amount to more than a trinket to warm his betters’ beds, a mere stable boy, of how this play at sweet kisses gouges him deeper than any whip ever did.

“I beg only for my master’s guidance,” he mocks. “And as sugar cubes have failed, perhaps you will use a whip, as you promised me once.”

Dropping Arthur’s wrists from his hold as if they burn him, Eames steps back, his leather breeches creaking in the sudden silence of the dead horse-master’s room. His mien is wretched, his cheeks bone-white in the gloom. He keeps silent, his face a blank slate, and Arthur swallows in fear.

When no words stay him, Arthur removes the light weave of his tunic, not allowing himself to think. He turns on his heel to press his hands against the wall, hoping Eames will halt him but knowing he shall not. The wood beneath Arthur’s hands is rough, and he rubs his palms against it, the catch of its grain on his fingertips. His breaths come shallow and quick like a small, caught animal as he awaits the first lash.

The sudden hand at his back startles him and he falls against the wall, shocked at the lips on his nape.

“For one with such a clever tongue and mind, you are quite the fool.”

The splash of warmth that spreads through his body at Eames’ stated regard cools at the added barb, but trapped between wood and Eames, Arthur can say nothing in his confusion. An insisting hand tugs Arthur back around till he faces Eames, and when he does, Eames rests his gloved palm on Arthur’s now bare skin, right above his brown breeches. Saying nothing, he steps closer, forcing Arthur to the wall. The stirring in his blood and the pounding of his heart should surprise Arthur no longer, yet he finds himself addled again by Eames, his presence and smell.

“M’lord -” he starts.

Eames chooses that moment to dip in and take Arthur’s lips in a kiss, a simple press; and for all that it is as light as Eames’ hands on Arthur’s skin, Arthur cannot break it. He feels like a rock on the shore of the eastern lake, Eames’s tongue coming over him again and again to wear Arthur down to smoothness, acquiescence. Looping his arms around his lord’s wide back, he lists forward, wishing he were not so weak of soul but helpless against Eames nonetheless.

When they break Eames pants against Arthur’s ear, buries his face between Arthur’s neck and naked shoulder.

“My father is laid to rest tomorrow,” he says, small and muffled by the joining of his lips to Arthur’s flesh.

“I know, m’lord,” replies Arthur, quiet, his hands still around Eames’ back, fingers spread wide.

Nudging deeper, his nose becomes an almost painful dig into Arthur’s neck and Eames says, broken, “This past night my -- my mother. My cousin, too.”

Arthur puts a tentative hand to Eames’ head, slides his fingers through Eames’ hair. He opens his mouth to respond, but Eames kisses him to silence again, dropping his hands to the backs of Arthur’s thighs and hitching him up to hold against the wall. When he has finished with Arthur’s mouth, leaving him stunned and gasping, Eames looks at Arthur, eyes wild and bright even in the failing light of the room.

“God has taken them from me with no warning. But you -- you are mine before you are God's."

The little protest remaining in Arthur withers at the sight of Eames below him, holding him up: skin sallow, eyes soul-weary, lips bitten and raw. Shifting, Arthur can tell that Eames is quiescent in his breeches even though he presses his body into the nooks of Arthur's own, finding where they slot together.

"Why do you come here, if not to take your pleasure from me?" In the room Arthur's voice is hushed, sincere in its confusion.

With a thud Arthur's boots hit the ground and Eames rips away from him, leaving Arthur to waver on his feet then gather his shirt. Pacing forward then back to Arthur as if caged by the room or Arthur's words, Eames grimaces, placing gloved hands on the horse-master's desk.

"May I not visit my servants as I please?" he asks.

Now that a tunic adds another layer between himself and Eames' rising voice, Arthur more stubbornly sets his feet apart. The slope of his lord's shoulders is harsh, defeat tinged agony running rigid through him; Arthur closes his eyes to the strange vision, attempting to rekindle the smouldering anger in his own chest by remembering stifled hopes.

"Of course, m’lord. And have you found a new master for the stables, for me to serve?" asks Arthur.

Whirling, Eames juts a finger out in front of him.

“You shall serve me before any other,” he reminds, as if Arthur needs a reminder besides the branding kisses that still linger on his throat. After delivering his caveat Eames glances away from Arthur. "The plague took many of our county’s best riders. Though there are a few good men left, the search goes slow."

“I am to have a new master, then.” The words almost choke Arthur, a futile sadness.

Eames returns his eyes to Arthur’s and opens his mouth, but at that moment a knock comes at the door, a hesitant, young voice drifting through.

“M’lord? There are men at the doors of the stables. They say they beg your time to discuss some matters of importance.” Eames scowls, seemingly ignoring the boy’s summons when he walks to Arthur. The boy continues from outside, “Your advisers, I believe?”

“Tell them they shall wait,” shouts Eames even as he takes Arthur into his reach, a strong arm behind Arthur’s back, hand splayed over spine. Eames dips to place a kiss on Arthur’s lips but Arthur gathers his frayed courage, spurning Eames by offering his cheek and closed eyes. He feels Eames pull away but keeps his head down, eyelashes swept low on a cheek that his lord touches the next second, a thumb on the tight skin at Arthur’s jaw.

Arthur does not know when he became so bold.

“You are angry with me,” says Eames, heavily. Arthur cannot see yet he still feels the chaste, repeated press of lips upon his cheek, soft and undemanding, and it shocks him into open eyes. Staring at him, Eames continues, talking to himself beneath his breath, “And now you know I shall not raise a whip to your back so you refuse me, though you have no right to do so.”

Placing a kiss that feels like an ending on Arthur’s cheek, Eames’ slips his arms, hands, fingers away from Arthur’s back and body like water over moss-covered rocks. At the loss of Eames’ heat around him Arthur shivers despite the sweltering room; he follows Eames out, gulping the cool air of the stables, but the familiar scent of old hay and horses does little to offset the haze in his mind. Watching his lord’s back as Eames leads them to the threshold of the stables, there is a terrible minute that Arthur wishes only to grab Eames’ hand and beg forgiveness for whatever slight he has committed, but his resolve firms too late.

Outside wait the advisers of the manor, a staid group of men: one tall and folded together like a praying mantis, one rotund and cheery, one ancient and wrinkled.

All of them glare at Arthur.

Eames brushes by them, quicker than the three by far. He cuts a black figure against the green lawn, a strike of iron into the earth, and Arthur cannot deny the pang of longing he feels in his chest, nor the unsatisfied buzzing in his lips.

  


The next day is the funeral for the old lord. The church bell tolls and the great cross still sweeps the sky, thick clouds blocking the sun. A procession of black-clad mourners head to the hill like a long, winding snake, and though Arthur searches he does not find Eames in their ranks.

Discontented, he turns back to the stables and sleeps through the day, the night.

  


It is a few days later, Eames' father and the horse-master cooling in the ground, that Arthur wakes, twists out from under his single sheet, and walks on light feet to help his new attendant muck out the stalls in the morning light.

The boy is already up, a rare sight. He runs to Arthur.

"Eames' men brought a new mare here in the night!" he says, breathless in gap-toothed excitement.

Arthur frowns.

“Why did you not wake me?”

“I told them I could care for her,” he replies, pride filling his young voice. He points a stall out to Arthur. “There, I put her there.”

The dregs of sleep still heavy on him, Arthur crosses his arms.

“And did they say whose she shall be? A new steed for the lord, perhaps?”

The boy shrugs, excitement already waning.

“I know not, for the lord’s men said nothing save that the lord bid them to fetch her from the far lands.”

Something in the boy’s words catches at Arthur, awakening him sharply.

“The far lands? From which direction did they return?”

Again the boy shrugs, and for the first time Arthur knows frustration with a child’s whimsy. He orders the boy to the far stalls to begin the day, perhaps harsher than he should. Guilt bites at him but in truth he finds himself too fractious to care for long. Of late his hopes have died in his chest many times and though he thought his heart a graveyard, when he looks to the door of the dark stall it seems one last spark remains.

He walks to its front and undoes the iron bolt. It takes time for his eyes to adjust and for a breathless moment dismay comes over him at the sight of a dark patch on the mare’s coat; but the seconds stretch and with them he sees that the dark patch is a shadow. Her true coat is light gray.

It is Byre, returned to him.

He walks to her on unsteady legs, his eyes watering at what must be the dust of the unused stall. She nickers at him sweetly in invitation, big eyes on his. He wraps his arms round her neck like he did as a child, burying his face in her rough mane and exhaling into her, letting her bear his worries, his fears, and his sadness as she bears his weight when she canters beneath him. His shoulders shake when he hands his despondency over to her for safe keeping, emptying himself of sickness like a lanced wound.

Minutes or hours later a sharp knock of wood on wood jolts him from his position, surprise straightening his spine even as he remains angled away from the open door of the stall, shame coming over him at the tears flowing down his face.

“Leave me,” he orders the boy, shaky.

There is silence; Byre fills it by butting her head against his.

“I will not,” says a voice, deeper than any child’s. Arthur tightens his fingers in Byre’s mane unthinkingly. Eames continues, “I did not think seeing her again would pain you so.”

Avoiding Eames’ eyes, Arthur picks the brush up from the floor and begins on Byre’s flank, wood handle rough under his fingers but her gray coat supple beneath that.

“Her master has returned?” he asks, keeping busy with his hands.

“The plague took him, or so I was told. She then belonged to his wife.”

“Belonged?”

“Yes, and --” Eames stops, frustration lacing his voice. “Turn and face me.”

Slowly Arthur does so. The pride and surety that Arthur remembers from their first meeting has returned and Eames is haughty even in his sleepwear, boots pulled on over soft cotton breeches.

“Yes, m’lord?” asks Arthur.

“I had her fetched from the eastern lands as a gift for the new horse-master.”

After clearing his throat, Arthur says, eyes on Byre’s hooves, “I see.”

In front of him Eames sighs in irritation and takes a step forward.

“Truly you are astoundingly simple. When I came the day of the funeral and watched you work, did you not understand that -- that -- ” Eames stops and lifts a naked hand to his head, running stiff fingers through his hair, obviously shaping his words as he stares at Arthur. “The little mare belongs to you, now.”

Stunned, Arthur attempts to gather himself.

“Byre is mine? But you said -- ”

“Oh, you do try my patience with your denseness. What manor would have a horse-master without a horse of his own?” As he delivers his ridicule Eames looks away, crossing his arms across his chest like the walls of a fortress.

Suddenly Arthur finds himself leaning on Byre more fully than before, his knees boneless, his face slack in shock. She stamps the hay-covered ground in her distress at Arthur’s strange actions so he mindlessly continues his obligations, brushing her coat one-handed. He thinks of his lord’s gentle kisses on his neck in the morning light; he thinks of the lines that separate the manor’s inhabitants (the milk-maid below the seamstress, the merchant above the indentured man, the lord always supreme), how perhaps both he and Eames are alone, in the end, Eames too high and Arthur too low.

“She is truly mine?” asks Arthur.

“Yes. Must I repeat it? Later a servant shall bring you parchment to keep the roster and the daily remarks. I expect it done perfectly, as you know your letters.” Eames shifts, looks pointedly at Arthur’s still hands. “Your steed is yet sullied.”

Arthur continues his ministrations, at first unable to concentrate when he feels his lord’s eyes trace his back, his face, his legs. Slowly, however, he settles into the rhythm of his brush, reacquainting himself with his mare, a slow rekindling. At the final stroke he goes on tiptoes to rest his head against Byre’s, putting his forehead on her pure white starburst, fisting his free hand into her mane as the hopes that he rent and packed deep inside himself so long ago come free all at once, expanding in his chest till he is full of them.

“I would ride her,” he confesses in an unstoppable rush.

“Is she not weary from her trek? The eastern lands are not near.”

Stepping back, Arthur considers Byre and bites his lip. His lord may be right; he opens his mouth to acknowledge it but Eames then concedes, “Though you are the horse-master.”

Arthur’s words dry up like the rains of summer, his lord’s meaning finally sinking into his bones.

“I -- yes. A light canter would not harm her,” he says. When Arthur looks to Eames’ face, it is grimly unreadable and closed to Arthur’s gaze. Before he can think otherwise, Arthur’s hopes grow even bigger and have him dropping his hand from Byre and stepping closer to Eames.

“Aris has not been ridden in many days, m’lord.”

Blinking twice, Eames refocuses on Arthur.

“Indeed, he has not.” A smirk flashes on Eames’ face, then, scythe-sharp and cutting. For once Arthur feels its edge is not aimed at him. “You wish for me to ride with you.” Eames comes the last step to Arthur, bringing his body close enough Arthur can feel his heat, can taste his breath.

He waits for his lord to possess him but Eames stays himself, eyes only searching Arthur’s.

“If you wish it, m’lord,” says Arthur, quiet.

Eames purses his full lips in a small frown, darkened eyes contemplating.

Arthur inches forward, drawn in by the memories of his master’s kiss despite himself. He noses against Eames’ face, waiting for his lord to throw him back or push him to the wall as he has before, but nothing of the sort happens. When Arthur at last brushes his lips carefully with Eames’, he sighs into the kiss, opening his mouth to invite Eames in for the first time. Hands alight on Arthur’s hips as Eames drags him closer, and Arthur allows himself a guiding palm on Eames’ cheek, softly biting his lord’s mouth.

They stay twined together until Byre snorts, stamping an impatient foot. The first to pull back is Eames, sucking Arthur’s bottom lip in one final time even as Arthur wonders at Eames’ actions and at Byre, whom he thought never to see again. He does not ask _why_ ; he is no fool, no matter what Eames may declare.

They mount quickly, Eames astride Aris, Arthur astride Byre.

“A short ride is best, I should think,” says Eames, glancing at Arthur, hunger writ on his face.

Arthur thinks of an old, lazy brook he once slept next to, many years ago; it has deepened, now, its steep sides crumbling to form a glen. It is a good ride for any horse.

“I know a place,” says Arthur.

  


_“Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters according to the flesh, with fear and trembling, in singleness of your heart, as unto Christ: Not with eyeservice, as menpleasers, but as the servants of Christ, doing the will of God from the heart; with good will doing service, as to the Lord, and not to men.”_

Ephesians 6:5-7 - KJV

 

_Some keep the Sabbath going to Church —_  
I keep it, staying at Home —  
With a Bobolink for a Chorister —  
And an Orchard, for a Dome —

_Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice —_  
I just wear my Wings —  
And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,  
Our little Sexton — sings.

_God preaches, a noted Clergyman —_  
And the sermon is never long,  
So instead of getting to Heaven, at last —  
I'm going, all along.

-Emily Dickinson

**Author's Note:**

> [Please sign-in to AO3 to see the alternate AU scene! :)]


End file.
